


Good Omens Prompts

by Lestire_Iillas



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Biblical References, Childbirth, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, obviously, weird angel anatomy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 14:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19402216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestire_Iillas/pseuds/Lestire_Iillas
Summary: Fills for the Good Omens thread over on Dreamwidth.1. Crowley: "I delivered the baby"2. WIP





	Good Omens Prompts

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous prompted: Crowley, "I delivered the baby"
> 
> 'I think this cries out for an AU where Crowley delivered-delivered the baby. (They love him down there! What an honour! And he's been around humans, the baby is going to be mostly human, surely that's all one needs...)
> 
> Is he recounting the experience to Aziraphale, to cure him of cooing over "toesie-woesies", while imbibing even more extraordinary amounts of alcohol than in the show? Possibly!'

“You’re sure it was the Antichrist?” 

“I should know - I delivered the baby.”

The exchange had the same tone to it as one would take while discussing a minor inconvenience over brunch. There was a pause, and Aziraphale momentarily broke his nonchalant stare at one particularly rowdy duck to glance over at Crowley in question. “You mean you…”

“Yes.” Crowley’s voice was curt, and he made an expulsive gesture.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows bounced up. “Well, there’s a thing,” but that was as much thought he put into it at the moment, mulling over the rest of it. “An _American_ diplomat?”

—

Somewhere around hour four of their evening of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Crowley absently rubbed at his jutting hipbone, as though massaging away an ache. Aziraphale had spent the last eight minutes straight just watching what his demonic friend was doing, and his curiosity overtook him suddenly, like an undertow just before an oceanic dropoff.

“When you said you delivered it - ah - you - ”

“You don’t want to hear about that, angel.” Crowley leaned back on the sofa, closing his eyes. “Whole thing was rather, er, fleshy. I’m thankful for having the honour bestowed upon me and all that, but I think there were a few too many fluids involved for your liking.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but pressed on. “I’ve seen you recently, though, and I feel like I would have noticed if you were… carrying. It’s a bit sudden is all.”

Crowley let out a sharp bark of laughter, “Oh, I wasn’t knocked up for nine bloody months. Birthing and making the damn thing may have been _very_ human, but even Hell isn’t that cruel.”

“My word - _making_ it?”

“Course.” Eyes still closed, Crowley nodded sagely.

“You’re absolutely right: I don’t want to hear about it.”

Crowley’s head shot up, and he squinted at Aziraphale, accusatory. “You asked. What, ’s the miracle of life not miracle-ish enough for you?”

“No, that’s really not - ”

“D’you know how many organs I had to fill myself up with? How bendy I had to make my bones, and then they _still_ cracked?” There was something exhilarating to him about telling Aziraphale the details, “I’ve been stabbed with a sword and bled less. The width of a human… chick - larva - what’s it?”

“Baby?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“No, the word you’re looking for is ‘baby’.”

A pause. “Right. Yeah. The width of a human baby’s shoulders. It’s very easy to underestimate.”

Aziraphale shuddered. He had the sudden mental image of Crowley, hair damp with sweat, propped up in a bed, a clenched hand absolutely demolishing some poor Demon’s metacarpals, and screaming as he pushed the Antichrist out of his body. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“At least now I can say I’ve tried it.” Crowley sighed. “Really though, She wasn’t joking about the whole ‘multiply your pain in childbearing’ nonsense. All in all, wouldn’t recommend it.”

Aziraphale frowned, staring down at his hands. “Oh, Eve.”

Crowley cocked an eyebrow, studying Aziraphale’s reaction. “Poor Eve.”

—

It took years for the delivery to come up again. Crowley only rarely thought about the experience, as young Warlock seemed somewhat separated from all the memories involved for some reason. The boy was taking a rare nap in a hammock in the garden, Nanny Ashtoreth trying very hard to project thoughts into his head - Warlock crushing the throats of his enemies by hand, levitating into a lightning storm of acid rain, standing victorious on a bloody battlefield - that sort of thing.

She was so concentrated, it took her by surprise when Brother Francis spoke softly from just a few metres away, “He doesn’t look much like you.”

She startled. “Well, no. He’s not mine. Biologically speaking.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, which wouldn’t have looked so ridiculous if it wasn’t for the false teeth and bushy sideburns. “I thought you said you - er - made him.”

“Egg wasn’t mine. We got one of our best to provide that - Elizabeth Báthory is technically his mother. He had to be part human of course.” Crowley said it all very matter-of-fact.

“Right, but then why involve you?”

Nannny Ashtoreth lowered her sunglasses and fixed Aziraphale with an unimpressed stare, “You know, it’s harder than you might think to get a centuries-dead serial killer into bed with anyone, let alone pregnant.”

Aziraphale glared back. Crowley chuckled as the Angel went back to gardening.

—

Something brushed at the back of Crowley’s mind as he drove up to the landing strip where the Antichrist, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a dog, and several small children were about to face off. When he jumped out of the vehicle, he didn’t even need to get a good look at the kids to know which one was Satan’s Spawn - the hair on the back of his neck stood up, the muscles in his face and back tensed up and he pointed.

“That’s him. The curly one - shoot him, save the world!” And then he couldn’t move. It wasn’t some device of Adam, but his own mind short-circuiting. Crowley knew, consciously, that he’d spent far too much time around humans to truly relate to his fellow Demons, but this chemical reaction that went off in his brain went beyond any of that. He felt something he’d never felt when Warlock was growing up, and it was an intense, animal connection. Staring down the barrel of they boy’s newfound powers, he felt, vividly but only for a moment, that same nerve-shredding pain as when he’d brought Adam into the world.

Only, this time it wasn’t from his fragile body contorting in ways it wasn’t designed to, it was from some deep programming She’d done on the mortals that told them it was Wrong to murder their own children. For that split second, Crowley didn’t see the burgeoning Antichrist, he saw the baby he’d handed off in a basket, with innocent eyes and fingernails so small you’d need a magnifying glass to trim them.

And then he buried that parental, _maternal_ feeling deep down, and got on with the Armageddon’t.


End file.
